


Helianthus

by Bogglocity



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Rare Pairings, late-19th-century pen pals turned maybe more than pals, listen i know sunflowers don't bloom for that long just roll with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 11:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16786207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bogglocity/pseuds/Bogglocity
Summary: Nadir had thought he would never hear of her again, but when he receives a bouquet and a letter reaching out, he is proven wrong in the softest way. One-shot





	Helianthus

The windows rattle with the force of the late-spring rain that has battered Paris for the past week, but Nadir doesn’t stir in his place. He is too busy sinking into plush and worn leather, far too busy staring at the brick and mortar of the empty, soot-stained fireplace to budge. His limbs have long gone numb, his ears deadened by the ticking of the clock that rests on the mantel, but he welcomes the steady noise because without it, the echoes of final wishes wheeze out of the walls in the voice of a dying phantom.

He doesn’t know how many days have passed since that night, how many days he has spent memorizing the texture of clay and ash, but he feels like a phantom himself, haunting the spaces between nightmares and the sense of heat, choking, drowning, _eyes_. Blue, blue eyes trained forward over pale, greyed cheeks, as resolute as they were resigned. He has to close his own eyes to the image of them, has to push them out of his head because if he looks too long, probes too deep into the ocean of them, he sees the quiet glintings of terror, the harsh bruises around slight wrists, the cracking of blood on a swollen temple.

No matter how much he pushes and pushes and pushes them away, they come back when he sleeps, burning through powder-tainted water but always out of reach. Always just beyond his fingers, a ghost, flaxen hair floating in a deathly halo around her before skeleton’s fingers wrap around her throat and wrench her back into the darkness. He always wakes with a gasp, coughing up water that doesn’t exist, damp with sweat and chilled by the draft of blankets tossed away by thrashing limbs.

It is why the world moves so slowly around him, why his senses slog and settle weary, why he can hardly tell days from nights from seconds from hours. It is why he only just notices, with a slow sigh, the interruption to his line of sight in the form of Darius’s legs as the man steps in front of him. It is why, when he looks up for an explanation, his words don’t come for the startle he is given by the sight before him.

It is the first shock of colour he has seen in a very, very long time, crimson-kissed gold petals fringing russet faces, and it nearly blinds him, this abundant armful of a bouquet in the dimmed sitting room. He almost doesn’t register what they are, the word ‘sunflower’ wiped clean from his memory, and he blinks against the confusion and the sight of them like he is blinking against the sun itself. Processing what they are, however, does nothing to alleviate the bewilderment, and he turns back up to Darius.

Before he can so much as form the first syllable, he is given a bow of the head and an envelope—cream, with his name written on the back in a curling, delicate script. He takes it from Darius’s hand, wary as he straightens himself with joints popping in complaint. His mind is sluggish in trying to call upon some semblance of recognition for the handwriting, but nothing comes, and he shakes his head before he turns his wrist to look at the back. Nothing of use or note there, either, save the light smudge of an inky thumbprint.

His curiosity quickly outweighs his hesitance and as Darius steps off to the kitchen to find a vase, he tears the edge in as careful a rush as he can muster and releases the letter. With it comes the lifting scent of faded herbs.

“ _Dear Monsieur Khan,_

_I have thought of a great many things in the too many and too few days since we last saw one another, not least of all your safety. It was not the most reassuring goodbye, not a goodbye at all, and fear told me it was a final one. The idea that that might be true has, among the rest of the horrors we have endured, kept me awake for too many nights to count._

_Would it be foolish of me to ask if you are well?_

_I know that it is, but desperate hope demands knowing, even if the answer is expected and unpleasant. Were you to ask me the same question, I might even laugh, if such a thing were possible right now. Even so, to have a response at all, even one word, even only a ‘no’ in bold, dripping print would put my mind at ease more than you know._

_Either way you respond, let it be honest. If you are aching as I am, I know it to be lonely._

_I understand that he was your friend, once upon a time. He was mine as well, once upon a time._

_With deep condolences,  
Christine Daaé_

_P.S. They are nowhere near enough to thank you for the selflessness you extended in risking your life, but I hope the sunflowers bring you some comfort and sunlight in this strange and dark time._ ”

His hands fall heavy in his lap, paper wrinkling just slightly before he can stop his fingers tightening over the edges of it. _Christine Daaé._ It wasn’t a lie, then. She is alive. She is alive, and she is safe, and the realization washes over him in a tide of relief, sweeping over sleeping nerves until they wake for the first time in an eternity.

It is such an odd feeling, to smile again, but he does, tracing the signature over with his thumb. A loop on the ‘C’, a bow to the cross of the ‘t’, and a blot of ink beside—culprit to the thumbprint, no doubt. It all settles full and whispery as flower petals in his chest, and he thinks that if she were in front of him in this instant, he would hug her for her name alone.

There is a return address on the back and he wastes no time in putting it to use, tasking Darius in setting the flowers to watch in dutiful, cheerful silence on his writing desk.

“ _Dear Mademoiselle Daaé,_

_You have given me a greater gift than you know in showing me that you are alive, and I am the closest to well that I have been in quite some time because of it. It has indeed been a strange and dark time, a painful one, but to know that you are safe has lightened it more than you could know. It is only lessened by the fact that you are enduring such a hardship at all._

_It is lonely, such as it always is with matters pertaining to him. Perhaps once upon a time, he could have remained our friend. I am sorry that it wasn’t meant to be, for either of us._

_With condolences in return,  
Nadir Khan_

_P.S. The flowers shocked me from a stupor. Thank you._ ”

It seems inadequate somehow, an anticlimax compared to the snapping of him from his haze, and so when he sends it off, with it goes a box of chocolates and a sincere hope that some comfort is lent to her in return.

* * *

The second bouquet surprises him more than the first.

Sunflowers again, wrapped in waxed paper and red twine, resting patient and placid as saints on his doorstep. He had been on his way out for a rare stroll, a suggestion—very close to a command—from Darius now that his mood has lifted a fraction from what it had been before the first letter, and he had almost stepped on the bundle before he was frozen in the doorway by its presence.

Wedged secure beneath the knot of twine is another envelope with that same curling script, and with a glance down to either end of the street—no sign of her—he scoops up the bouquet and plucks the envelope free.

When he opens it, that same scent of herbs greets him.

“ _Dear Monsieur Khan,_

_You are a kind man, and a good friend to those lucky enough to call you one. Thank you._

_With uncommon happiness,  
Christine Daaé_

_P.S. I am sorry for the late response. The first bouquet ought to be dying about now, and I wanted to send along another to replace it._

_P.P.S. The chocolates were divine._ ”

His smile is wider this time, huff of a laugh pulling free, stroll going soundly forgotten, and the flowers find their place on his writing desk once more, fresh and joyful in the slanting sunlight that filters through sheer under-curtains. The scratching of his pen feels familiar already, and the nightmares feel suddenly distant.

“ _Dear Mademoiselle Daaé…_ ”

* * *

“ _Dearest Nadir,_

_You really must stop sending chocolates. Mama Valerius and I can only eat so many, and she thinks I don’t notice, but I see how she ruins her appetite for dinner. Like a child! I don’t claim to be sinless—they are far too easy to eat when not paying attention. In the end, should my dresses stop fitting, all blame rests on you. Then all the money you spend on treats will have to go to buying me new ones. I expect the finest of silks, Monsieur._

_As for your question, Raoul has sent word back from Lyon. He intends to move on to Avignon when spring returns, but for now, he is comfortable. He mentioned Italy in passing—Sorelli’s doing, no doubt. But he would like it, I think. The weather is lovely there, from what I’ve heard, and I think the distance would do him well._

_I still haven’t been by the opera house. I am the same, it dizzies me to look at it. The nightmares still haven’t faded. Perhaps when they’ve quieted, we will finally meet again properly and walk by it together._

_I hope that you and Darius are still well, and that the cold hasn’t been creeping in too easily. Mama Valerius thinks it will be a mild winter coming, but she says the same every year._

_With thoughts of you,  
Christine Daaé_”

Nadir’s breath puffs out in a feather of white in the chill autumn, but a swell of fondness warms him from the inside out as he cradles the bouquet of sunflowers in the crook of his elbow—the season for them is soon up and she must know because they are almost too heavy to hold for the sheer number of them. It is a grounding weight, however, and he takes his time stepping indoors to trace the line of her signature.

The same loop on the ‘C’, the same bow to the ‘t’, and a streak of ink near the bottom where she tried to wipe a drip away. He can easily picture, now, the rush for a rag, the inevitable use of her thumb, the stains of black on her hands. He still can’t quite picture her smile, has never seen it before—does she have dimples? Does she blush? Does she cover her mouth, does she turn away, does she bite her lip?

The wondering of it has been consuming him more and more, as of late. Each time he sees the colour yellow, each time he smells basil and chamomile, each time he sits at his writing desk and leans back in his chair to look out the window. He isn’t quite sure why he is so fixated, but it keeps the thoughts of bruises and sloshing water away, and so he grips onto the imaginings of those blue, blue eyes glittered by sunlight rather than tears.

… _we will finally meet again properly_ …

He would enjoy that very much, he thinks, to meet again. Properly. But not yet, the time isn’t right yet. The shadows haven’t stretched far enough to not see the shapes anymore. They need more time.

“ _Dearest Christine,_

_I will stop sending treats when the sunflowers stop appearing on my stoop. In the meanwhile…_ ”

It is a lie, of course, and when the next letter comes with regrets for the lack of flowers in the dying season, he still sends along a box. The accusations of trickery and her announcement that she will never trust him again are more than welcomed for the handkerchief she tucks into the envelope, embroidered with a little yellow blossom and the letters ‘NK’ in emerald green.

* * *

Neither of them seems capable of movement, trapped in the mutual shock of it despite the knock that announced it, world gone still save the summer birds flitting along the breeze and the barest rustle to the golden petals that she holds to her chest. Blue, blue eyes wide, and they are a different shade to what Nadir remembers, somewhere between sky and periwinkle, but perhaps it is because the cheeks beneath them have grown back their roses. He sees not a single bruise, and detects not a single inkling of fear. Only surprise, awe in that tiny intake of breath.

He takes in his own when she breaks into a smile. Dimpled, a dusting of pink on her cheeks and the slightest flash of her teeth, and it is so much brighter than what he could have imagined, filling and lighting every fissure cracked inside of him until he has no choice but to mirror it. So unlike the ghost that has haunted his sleep. She is alive, surrounded by life, and he feels alive himself for the sight of it.

“Monsieur Khan,” she says, and there is a laugh hidden in that singer’s voice, though whether in the astonishment or the glee, he isn’t sure.

“Mademoiselle Daaé,” he greets in return, pulling his cap away and bowing in greeting. Now she does laugh, a proper silvery laugh that he echoes with his own round chuckle, a sound that startles him in its renewed full candor before he straightens and replaces his cap. When she takes a step closer, there is a warm tingle on the back of his neck and his smile softens. “What brings you to this side of Paris?”

She looks to the ground, thumbing a fold of wax paper before her eyes turn up to him again.

“I had hoped to meet a friend.” Another step forward, and she offers up the bouquet of sunflowers, the first of the year. He takes it into his arms, holds it close and ginger, a practiced tenderness. “It has been a dreadfully long year and more since I last saw him. And I’m afraid our goodbye was less than kind.”

A hint of sadness knits her eyebrows, remorse and understanding tangled still in the upward curve of her ballet-pink lips. He mirrors this as well, and for a long moment, nothing is said, but the silence is comfortable and knowing. The kinship tugs a knot of that red twine beneath his ribs, and he feels compelled to close their distance.

Instead, he steps out of the doorframe and holds a hand up in admittance.

“A pot of tea wouldn’t take too long. And I’ve just bought a box of chocolates.” Another laugh, quieter now, and she shakes her head, lifting a hand to squeeze the arm that keeps the flowers pressed to his chest. A second nature that he never knew he possessed has his opposite hand slipping over hers, fingers tucking beneath her palm to squeeze back, and the pink of her cheeks deepens to a blush. She inches forward only slightly, but she is close enough now for her skirts to brush the toes of his shoes.

“I had rather hoped for a walk first,” she says, voice lower, and she averts her eyes in something like consideration, something like reticence in the biting of her bottom lip.

He waits, brushing his thumb barely a centimeter over her knuckle, absorbing this small evidence of her corporeality while his eyes trail over the fan of her gossamer eyelashes, the flyaway locks that wisp from her bun, the near-invisible freckles that sprinkle over her nose and cheekbones. He had never seen any of these, in the cold shadows. In the sun, they seem unreal, but he can reach them. He could reach over right now to tuck a loose tress behind her ear, or cup her jaw, or stroke a line of comfort along the slope of her cheek to stop her lips pursing the way they are.

“I thought… the opera house might…” Her voice catches but he understands now, and she must see it in the hair’s-width widening of his eyes when she looks back up at him because regret, panic flash over her face in an instant. She shifts as though to pull back, but he squeezes her hand again in a hurried reassurance and she stills. Another brush of his thumb has her smile returning, however slowly, his own following, his heart thudding just once in his chest before its normal rhythm restarts.

“Easier for the both of us if we tackle it together, hm?” he asks in a murmur. She closes her eyes, sighing as if his words have eased some long-held gravity that she has been harbouring for too long to consider without his heart breaking.

“Yes. Much easier, I think.”

The flowers, as all the times before, take post on his writing desk, but this time, Nadir doesn’t sit with them. Rather, he steps once more into the summer light, not so much as squinting against it as he offers his arm. The dimple on Christine’s cheek deepens and, without further pretense or preamble, she takes it, hand soft and welcome on his elbow.

The shadows of the Paris Opera don’t seem so dark, under the setting afternoon sun, handkerchief tucked in his breast pocket with a stray golden petal.


End file.
